


the stars they lie

by Rikku



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: M/M, Mind Games, Nonbinary Aaravos, Other, Possessive Behaviour, Season/Series 02, past unrequited Viren/Harrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 16:19:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18347246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikku/pseuds/Rikku
Summary: Aaravos comforts or confronts Viren with an image of Harrow. Viren duly falls apart.(Two terrible people being complicated.)





	the stars they lie

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Stone Sour's 'Through Glass', which is even more Aaravos than I expected.

Viren should not have kept coming here, not after every word about Aaravos in his books had jumbled and smudged before his eyes. Whatever else Aaravos was they were an elf, and no elf could be trusted. He shouldn’t keep coming here.

And yet he did.

Aaravos smiled at him from their side of the mirror. Their midnight-blue hood was down, pale hair hanging over their shoulders. “I can help you,” they said.

Viren shifted his grip on his staff, making sure he stood square and powerful. “So you keep saying,” he said. “I’m not some gullible fool you can win over so easily.”

“Surely even you have been won over at least once in your life,” Aaravos said, rich with amusement. Their dark eyes flicked upward, as though they could see anything through the thick stone walls of the cell.

“Whatever you’re doing, I don’t need you to,” Viren warned.

“Him?” Aaravos murmured. The bug curled on Viren’s ear was only a slight weight, far too easy to forget. “That beautiful one beside you in the portrait?”

Viren looked away, glaring.

Aaravos murmured something, just a breath in his ear, and there was a flash of movement in the corner of his eye. He tensed, whirling around.

They pressed their hands together, finger to finger, thumb to thumb. Their eyes didn’t glow opalescent with magic and no glyphs formed in the air, but one moment Viren was alone in the cell and the next Harrow stood before him.

He didn’t look as Viren had seen him last, a little younger, a lot happier. But it was unmistakeably his king, tall and broad-shouldered and regal, that familiar dark hair and devastatingly kind smile.

Viren stepped back, swallowing. Moon magic? “No,” he said. “Stop it. Don’t. I command you—”

“You don’t command me, old friend,” said the Harrow-image. It didn’t speak in Harrow’s voice but the elf’s, deep and treacherous.

Harrow stepped forward, so Viren stepped back, frantically. His knee gave out and he fell back into the chair. Hateful, to look so foolish in front of a dangerous ally. But that felt distant right now, and Harrow was so close, like he could reach out and touch him.

Harrow put a hand on his shoulder, and it felt firm and warm, like always. He squeezed. “I don’t blame you, my Viren.”

He’d never once called him that. Still a secret part of Viren thrilled yes, his Viren, Harrow’s Viren. He swallowed, holding up his arms to try and fend the apparition off, but he could not bear to do it harm. 

“Viren, it’s alright,” Harrow said, and then warm arms close around Viren, warm, familiar arms, and he froze. Tears burned at his eyes and ran down his face unstoppably. The false Harrow’s body pressed close to his, firm and solid and alive.

A vicious illusion, to feel so real. Viren dragged his eyes away at last, staring at Aaravos who stared back with eyes like drops of honey in darkness. “Please stop,” he whispered. He had never begged like this before.

Aaravos didn’t answer, but Harrow did. With one big hand cradling the back of his head, Harrow said, “Viren, it’s alright. I forgive you.”

Every muscle in his body went tense. His bones did not crack, but something in him shattered.

Viren bit his lip hard and shoved the apparition off him. Harrow stumbled back, his brow drawing down in hurt. Viren chewed his lip until it bled and glared fiercely at Aaravos in the mirror. “Stop this at once.”

“Why?” said Aaravos-Harrow in front of him. The familiar face smiled wickedly, not his king’s smile, not his king. “What will you do? Let me die again?”

Viren clamped a hand over his mouth to choke back a sob. 

Harrow reeled back a step, a hand going to his heart, his face struck with sorrow. He fell to one knee, pulling his hand back red with blood. A dark stain spread through the front of his doublet.

“Oh, no, no,” Viren whispered, as Harrow fell to the ground and lay there.

Viren scrambled forward and dropped to his knees beside him, clenching his fingers into the rich red fabric. “No no no,” he said. “Oh Harrow. Oh my king.”

He rocked forward and pressed his forehead into Harrow’s shoulder, body already cooling. He crouched there, wracked with grief, until the cold stone floor of the cell and the tingling feeling at the back of his neck brought him back to reality.

Viren didn’t, couldn’t look at the mirror yet. He stood stiffly and wiped off his hands, though none of the illusory blood clung to him. His hands were clean. He swallowed.

The corpse image slowly faded. Viren clenched his hand on his staff and turned.

Aaravos watched him with naked curiosity. Viren’s tears were still drying on his face. How dare they? How dare Aaravos do this?

Their eyes were deep, hooded, mysterious. Though their face was for once empty of a smirk, they seemed intent on watching Viren’s shameful display of grief, cataloguing it, studying him.

Viren had never met such a mirror.

He took a step forward. Aaravos held up their four-fingered hands, palms open. “I think I owe you an apology,” they said, and smiled just a little.

Viren clenched his teeth and grabbed his goblet, the first thing to hand. He threw it at the mirror with all his strength and it bounced off, rolling on the floor.

Aaravos frowned faintly. “You can do better than that,” they said.

Even in his rage it made his skin itch, but there were worse things than their disappointment. “I don’t – want to destroy the mirror,” Viren said through gritted teeth. “I just wish I could hit you!”

Aaravos cocked their head, silvery hair brushing their shoulders. “Would you like me to harm myself for you?” Aaravos said calmly. Viren’s temper died in a cold twist of nausea.

He stepped back stiffly and settled himself back down in the chair, slow and proper. “That … won’t be necessary.” His eyes dragged down to the ground, where the image of Harrow had fallen. No blood stained the stone. He jerked his head back up and glared at that hateful elf, starlit and incandescently cruel. “But I warn you, if you ever play such a game with me again, I will find a way to break into your prison just to _rip out your heart_.”

Aaravos nodded, pursing their lips as if in sorrow. “You would be familiar with the sensation, it seems.”

“Stop,” Viren snarled. “I mean it, Aaravos.”

He rarely used their name, because he couldn’t help how it fell from his tongue, like treasured knowledge. Their expression of false sorrow faded into unreadable blankness.

“Have a weakness in exchange then, as I took that too far,” Aaravos said. At least they didn’t say Harrow’s name. “I will tell you truly: if you break this mirror or abandon me entirely, it will cause me suffering like you can barely imagine.”

“Hrmn,” Viren said. He leaned his head on one hand, rubbing at his forehead. It wasn’t like Aaravos to just hand over a weapon s easily, but they always had a dozen reasons for doing everything.

“Fortunately I know you won’t,” Aaravos said, and Viren rolled his eyes back up at them to glare. Aaravos smiled.

“Don’t presume to know me, elf.”

They took a step forward, pressing their palms to the glass. He found it impossible to ignore the glittering stars threaded through their skin. “I can see he hurt you deeply, but it’s alright,” Aaravos said, their voice deep, their eyes deeper, a void to fall into. “I won’t.”

They thought Harrow had hurt _him_ —

Viren swallowed back the nausea. He clamped down the memories, same as ever, pushing back all the years of his old life. Lately the wall between him and his grief felt butterfly-thin.

“Aaravos,” Viren whispered, and then did not know what to say. He couldn’t bear to hand them any more weapons. _Please never do this again, Aaravos, please. Comfort me, Aaravos. Wrap his arms around me—_

He swallowed, pressing a clenched hand to his mouth. At least he wasn’t reduced to hungering for their embrace yet, as far as they knew, or they would surely have taunted him with that.

He glanced at them. Aaravos stared back, brow furrowed. Despite all they’d done, having the singleminded focus of such a powerful being was dizzying. Aaravos dropped their hands to their sides and cocked their head.

“You say my name like it’s a prayer, my Viren,” Aaravos said. _Aaravos_ said it, not some false image, they had the gall to call him that. Viren swallowed and half-stood, infuriated. Aaravos spread out their hands and smiled at him archly, one eyebrow raised. “I merely seek to answer.”

Viren shook his head, slow rage sluggish in his veins. “Never do this again.” He held his hand up in the air then clenched his fist, yanking it backward. If not their heart, he could rip the hollow star from their chest. The darkness at Aaravos’s core was so easy to see and find, not like Viren.

Perhaps Harrow would have loved him if not for the rot deep inside.

“You seemed lonely,” Aaravos said, from a thousand miles away.

Viren shook his head, tightening his grip on his staff to bring himself into the present moment. “That is none of your concern,” he said hoarsely. “You didn’t need to invoke – him.”

Aaravos arched one pale eyebrow. “Would you let an image of me touch you?”

“Certainly not, you monster,” Viren said coldly. It wasn’t even worth considering. He refused to consider it.

They shrugged and smiled. “There we are, then.”

He reached for anger and found only ashes. “Leave me be,” he said, leaning too heavily on his staff.

Aaravos inclined their head. “Of course, for as long as you need.” They curled their hand at their side, and the fire snuffed out. Viren was left to stare at his reflection, tired and grey.

Aaravos hadn’t even needed to say it: they both knew that would be a terribly, terribly short time.

“Damn you,” he muttered, and sat down, propping his chin in his hands. He clawed the bug from his ear irritably and shut it in its little glass prison, setting the jar down with a thump.

Viren had always been drawn to the world’s most harmful things. Or just those who would cause the most harm to him, in the king’s case. Old, familiar pain swelled in his breast, and he quelled it. 

He sat frowning at the mirror. For a few seconds there, the elf had seemed almost sad. But then again, with this little trick Aaravos had proven masterfully that they could _seem_ like anything.


End file.
